


sisters of the moon

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Incest, Moonbathing, Sibling Incest, Sister/Sister Incest, Spellcest, read the tags folks, sisters doin it for themsleves, swingin sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: The sisters take a moonlit walk.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	sisters of the moon

**Author's Note:**

> Moonbathing sister wives? Be still my heart.  
> Slight spoilers for part three.  
> Let me know what you think!

There is no resisting the sweet, sinister beckoning of the moon, full and round and imposing against a cobalt sky. There is power here -- not the newer, male power -- but the old power, the feminine power. It is ancient and alive in the wind, in the trees, in the damp earth beneath Hilda’s bare feet. She finds it intoxicating, thick on her tongue, thrilling. 

She’s not sure what’s the _ancient Magick_ and what is Zelda, nor is she sure that they aren’t one in the same.

Zelda’s fingers, sure and steady and tight in their grip, guide her along the path, but they walk in tandem. 

Leaves rustle. Owls stalk. Deadlier creatures lurk in the shadows, but they keep their distance. 

These woods are protected. 

These women -- the vessel, the voice -- are protected. 

Rose gold catches the moonlight that filters through gaps in the canopy overhead. Its sheen is incandescent. 

Hilda doesn’t trust these woods, but she trusts her sister. She trusts her High Priestess. Sometimes, Hilda is unsure if Zelda is the messenger, or the message itself. Maybe she’s both. To Hilda, she’s everything. 

Zelda’s hand is warm and reassuring as it tethers Hilda to the moment, to the earth. In her free hand, Hilda clutches a quilt. She tucks her fingers into the folds of the soft fabric, hiding the glint of a diamond ring as it catches the light above. 

It’s too much. The ring feels foreign in this sacred place. It doesn’t feel natural on her finger. She looks at it, stares at it, meditates on it. She hopes it will finally feel real and wonders if it ever will. 

This engagement feels like a fairytale, plucked from the pages of any of her beloved novels. 

Zelda’s thumb soothes against her fingers. This, oh _this_ , is real. 

The clearing is quiet. 

Empty, and full of life. 

Zelda lets go of Hilda’s hand, watches her with dark eyes as Hilda spreads the quilt across the earth. 

Leaves rustle. Limbs sway like a dance. In the distance, something howls. Closer, something creeps amongst the underbrush. Closer still, the rapid tattoo of Zelda’s heart is deafening, or is it her own? 

And then the universe narrows to the slant of mouth against mouth, and Hilda’s fingers tangle in so much shining copper. There is no anointing oil, or arcane prayer. The press of Hilda’s tongue against Zelda’s is all the blessing she needs.

A whimper catches in her sister’s throat and the sound reverberates throughout Hilda’s body, ringing in her ears, in her chest, between her legs. It laps at her, teases her, caresses her like the fingers pushing her robe from her shoulders. Zelda’s hands grip at her waist like _she_ is the one who needs to be anchored. 

Hilda’s fingers twist the delicate fabric at Zelda’s hips, drawing her close, drawing her in until they are one body, one soul, one heart beating in time. She wants the gown gone, wants to see her sister’s pale, lithe body awash in moonlight, but she cannot bear to pull away.

Not yet. 

This kiss goes on, and on, and on, until Hilda’s tongue is sore and her lungs ache for breath. When she pulls away, greedy fingers tug relentlessly at her nightgown until it is banished to the underbrush. Oh, and then those deft, pale fingers are making quick work of discarding her own gown, and Hilda drinks in the sight of her. 

It will never fail to thrill her to see Zelda stripped bare like this, clad in nothing more than a smirk. Her porcelain flesh is infinitely kissable, the silver light of the moon making visible every perfect curve. It takes Hilda’s breath away.

Zelda’s loveliness rivals the beauty in all things. Hilda worships her. 

But it is Hilda who will be worshipped. Zelda gathers her in greedy arms and frenzied caresses, lays her down upon great-grandmother’s quilt. Hilda cradles her sister’s overheated body between trembling thighs and gives herself completely to questing fingers and roving tongue.

Zelda’s mouth descends and oh, Hilda has never understood why her romance heroines describe themselves as weak with desire because she has never felt as strong, as powerful, as _alive_ as she does in these moments with her sister. 

She feels it everywhere. 

This is magic. 

This is what she believes in. 

The ring glints again when she fists a lustrous handful of rose gold, raising her hips to meet Zelda’s insatiable mouth. She closes her eyes to it, shutting out what doesn’t belong here in this sacred space. 

So much is uncertain, especially here in the deep dark of the Greendale Wood. 

She has no answers in this chaotic world, where up is down, and good is evil, and Sabrina is the Queen of Hell. 

Her certainty is reserved for Zelda.

The love that Hilda cries out into the night is infinite. 

\---


End file.
